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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28032180">circle the drain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieHurley/pseuds/AnnieHurley'>AnnieHurley</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cobra Kai (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Coming of Age, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, M/M, Pretty tame tbh, buds being buds right?, but probably not lovers, f slur do we tag for that?, friends to enemies to lovers more like, hawk pov, kind of rambling, more like externalized discomfort with the mortifying ordeal of existing?, mutual masturbation/handjobs chapter two, not internalized homophobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:28:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28032180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieHurley/pseuds/AnnieHurley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time a folded sheet of paper lands in Eli’s lap, he’s sure it’ll say something awful. Instead, in barely intelligible chicken scratch, it’s some dumb joke. </p><p>Why doesn’t anyone talk to circles? Because there’s no point. </p><p>+</p><p>Where Hawk and Demetri manage to spend the better part of a decade joined at the hip without discussing anything of substance.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Demitri/Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eli moves right at the start of fourth grade. Away from the house with shutters, away from its sprawling yard, away from all his aunts and uncles and cousins, none of whom really get him but who fill in the sharp silence between his parents and him. Now, they have an apartment, smaller, with less light. He almost likes that, the way he can disappear into the shadows. But it’s a big almost, never quite landing on account of the move being the worst thing to happen to him. Worse than his stupid lip, worse than the fights that consume his parents well into the night, worse than when he can tell they’re fighting about him. The move means new school, new class, new nicknames to be thought up. New reasons for Eli to stay up at night, dreading day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begs to be homeschooled but his parents refuse. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is normal, this is what everyone does. You’ll be fine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli knows he won’t be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps his eyes pinned to the ground from the moment the door of his mom’s station wagon clicks shut behind him. He can hear other kids chattering, probably laughing at him. That’s all anyone does, if they don’t just avoid him. He makes his way to his classroom—that of Miss Pulaski, who he’ll soon learn is new herself and even more hopeless than he is—and sits at the desk with his name on it, only raising his head enough to spot it. He’s early, which feels like a mistake even before someone else enters the room, sitting down silently one row back and to the left of him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli and his companion sit in the quiet, separated from the echoes of shrieking and sneakers squeaking just outside the door. It sounds like it could be fun, if you’re into that. If you’ve had the chance to be into that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens again, more than one person, he can tell by the sound, a duo of footsteps moving closer to him. Someone drops into the desk to his left, somebody else to his right. Eli doesn’t look up, doesn’t so much as breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, are you new—“ From the left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to your lip?” From the right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The left cranes his head forward, trying to better scope out the situation. Eli can’t help himself, he looks up and knows immediately he’s made another mistake. The boy on the right, his tone was merely one of curiosity, of reflex. But the boy on the left, his eyes are mean, even without the snarl of his own, unscarred upper lip accentuating them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, what happened to your lip, new kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli stays silent, still, even though he knows that’s the wrong thing entirely. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of them lean in close, much closer than Eli is used to people getting. He knows he’s got to be reddening, with sweat blooming at his temple as gravel grinds in his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh? What are you, deaf?” Left raises his voice on the last clause, earning a </span>
  <em>
    <span>harrumph</span>
  </em>
  <span> from the distance, their forgotten audience. Both of the boys move their focus from Eli and he thanks all the powers that be for the reprieve. “What are you laughing at, dummy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First of all, I wouldn’t say that qualifies as a laugh. More like a scoff, as in I’m deriding you. Second, if he was deaf, you raising your voice would be utterly pointless. Deaf literally means ‘can’t hear,’ it doesn’t mean ‘can hear loud things, speak up.’ And third of all, well, I don’t really have a third but I think you should lay off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli almost laughs at that trail off, at the irreverence of it all. The confidence. He could never spit that back at someone calling him names, never overlook the consequences, which in this case, is Left standing up at his desk, radiating anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, dummy—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But at that moment, the door opens again, the clopping of heels insisting it must be Miss Pulaski, her own timid voice calling out a greeting moments later. She busies herself at the front of the room, more students trickling in. Left sits down, arms crossed, turning his body as far away from Eli as possible without moving the desk. It’s this that makes him feel as though he can raise his head a quarter inch, then swivel it enough to catch a glimpse of the petulant person who bothered to intervene on his behalf. All he can catch is a dome of dark brown hair and skin so pale it seems impossible this boy lives under the same California sun that he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The morning crawls on after that, everyone stiff in their seats, freshly sharpened pencils lined up, pants neatly pressed, ponytails high. Miss Pulaski eschews any introductions on account of her own nervousness, passing out books without much note and finally dismissing them for recess without bothering to hide her exhaustion. Eli waits in his seat until the rest of his classmates have cleared out, sweeping his supplies into his backpack and strapping it to his back; he knows better than to leave his things unattended. They have a way of disappearing if not just self-destructing, he’s  learned. He’s only just passed through the threshold when a hand claps his shoulder and he thinks it’s all over now as he squeezes his eyes shut. He’s expecting pain, the initial jolt followed by the dull blooming ache. But the hit never comes. Instead, another harrumph.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jeez, would you relax? Those Neanderthals aren’t going to jump you when there’s four square to be played and worms to cut in half, you’re fine.” A pause. “Well, clearly not fine judging by whatever happened to your mouth but at least not facing damage to the rest of your extremities at the moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli opens his eyes, finding himself face to face with a owlish sort of boy—gawky, sunken in, with bone structure that will one day make him a heartthrob or hideous, no in between—smiling mischievously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Demetri. Hence ‘dummy,’ Zach really isn’t one for creativity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eli.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s all it takes, somehow, for them to be friends. They start eating lunch together, clinging to the edge of the schoolyard away from anything involving a ball, and when Miss Pulaski does away with assigned seating—mainly so she can get Austin Aarons and his rock solid spitballs out of the front row—they claim two desks at the back of the room. Eli takes the corner without argument, his scar now tucked out of view. Instantly, it’s like a weight is taken off his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first time a folded sheet of paper lands in Eli’s lap, he’s sure it’ll say something awful. Instead, in barely intelligible chicken scratch, it’s some dumb joke. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why doesn’t anyone talk to circles? Because there’s no point.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head as he catches Demetri’s megawatt smile out of the corner of his eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a nerd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all they have in common—good grades and imaginary realms and an aversion to physical exertion—Demetri and Eli are still so different. Demetri is always on, correcting classmates, tossing out his opinion, sometimes even monologuing. Always talking a million miles a minute, never holding anything back. Eli is silent for the eight hours a day they spend in class aside from the midday break when Demetri’s attention turns to him. Coaxing, querying, sometimes poking, he eventually gets Eli to open up, despite his self-preservation instincts telling him not to bother. But Demetri wants to know and he always listens before making his own extrapolations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli’s parents regard Demetri with suspicion for the longest time, traces of it years into their friendship, always waiting for the catch. They’re sure every </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you, Mrs. Moskowitz </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how’s it going, Mr. M?</span>
  </em>
  <span> masks some sinister agenda, dubious every time Eli returns from a play date bright-eyed and unbruised. They rarely host, excited that he has friends but not excited enough to shuttle the boys around or put out snacks. So Eli gets pretty comfortable in Demetri’s house, with its terra cotta shingles and picture-lined walls. He has his own spot at the dining room table, a claim to the left side of Demetri’s full sized bed for sleepovers, and by the end of that first year he knows where they keep the spare key. Demetri’s mother is like him exactly—in his own words, </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud, pushy, did he say loud?</span>
  </em>
  <span>—but they both have a way of toning it down when Eli is around, keeping him from feeling shut out or overwhelmed. It’s this boisterousness that makes the single time she pulls him aside in seventh grade, and says, oh so quiet, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m glad you two found each other </span>
  </em>
  <span>so much more meaningful than Eli’s stuttered reply of </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know, me too</span>
  </em>
  <span> can convey. When he makes it up to Demetri’s room, the other boy already sprawled on the bed, weighing their options for movie night, he’s hit with a wave of gratitude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Demetri swivels his head to look at him and Eli can’t help but shift his own gaze under the sudden burst of attention, the pressure it creates in his chest. “Did you have another idea? Because I was thinking we deep dive into the beginning of the MCU and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure, whatever. But I just wanted to say,” Eli forces himself to look at Demetri. “I just wanted to say thanks for being my friend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence. Eli wants to turn on his heel and walk back out the door as Demetri sits there, stiff, grip so tight he can see the plastic of the DVD casings buckle. Moments pass but it could be millennia before Demetri responds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, dude. Travelled down the road and back again.” Demetri laughs at himself, at his own corny reference, and Eli feels sick, like he’s violated some invisible boundary and, and, and there’s no going back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, Demetri stands, letting go of the DVDs and before Eli can react, they’re hugging. Not for the first time, no, but it’s certainly not a regular occurrence. Eli kind of wishes it was but that’s beside the point. “Thank you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sure, things are still far from perfect. Eli’s scar only seems to become more evident over the years, no matter how many lotions and creams he slathers on. School, which he comes to learn was the reason for the move, this supposedly being a much better district with stronger disciplinary policies, is still miserable. But Demetri is there through it all, head held high despite his horrendous posture, hands in his pockets, totally nonchalant as he mouths off to their bullies. Until one day, right at the start of ninth grade, he stops. They’re leaving school on a Friday, talking maybe a bit too loud about Game of Thrones or Doctor Who, it doesn’t matter, when the horde descends. Kyler and his cronies, terrors of the district’s other, evidently more bellicose middle school, unluckily merging with theirs for high school. Demetri takes the first hit, so caught off guard that he doesn’t even think to curl into a ball. Their aggressors are spewing the same kind of bullshit that their middle school bullies did, none of it mattering much to Eli. He doesn’t care much for words. But there’s one line that rings out through the static, he and Demetri making eye contact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not even gonna fight back? Faggots.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, it’s over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the first real ass-kicking Eli has had since moving, the first Demetri has ever had in his life, and as they both sit there, slumped against the brick, they know it won’t be the last. The first to rise, Eli reaches out a hand to Demetri but he won’t take it. Won’t even make eye contact as they leave the property, going their separate ways. The next morning, Demetri’s mom calls to cancel that week’s sleepover. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sore throat,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she tells his mom, a little too cheerful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>poor kid can’t carry on like usual.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s phony and they all know it. Eli spends the night staring blankly at his ceiling, too depressed to storm into the living room and tell his parents he can hear their whispers, hear them speculating about what he could have done wrong. How it’s probably been a long time coming. He cries himself to sleep, not for the first time, certainly not, but there’s something different about this sadness. It carries a calm with it, the feeling that something has changed forever and there's nothing he can do about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On Monday, it’s business as usual. No mention of the beating or the missed sleepover, Demetri promising this week is Eli’s turn to pick the movie. It won’t be, it never is, but he doesn’t say so, every sentence that passes between them already blanketed in a hush that threatens to send all conversation grinding to a halt. Eli is desperate for whatever crumbs Demetri can give him, three days spent alone in his own brain nearly unbearable. He doesn’t roll his eyes once, though it’s a struggle at times. The day passes mostly without incident until seventh period study hall, when Demetri stands to fetch a book from the stacks and turns without a thought, coming face to face with Kyler, who’s walking and texting just as obviously. Eli holds his breath as Kyler pockets the phone, his face taking on a cruel smirk. He’s sure whatever Demetri is going to say will get him a black eye. But nothing comes: he just swerves around Kyler, all but running in the opposite direction. Which leaves an already keyed up Kyler no choice but to turn to Eli. What ensues isn't a surprise: shit-lip this, twerp that, an enumeration of appliances he might have orally engaged with, the standard line of criticism. No suppositions about his sexuality somehow, which he'd expected to become routine after Friday but is relieved haven't. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course there's truth in that line of taunting and, of course, they both know it, have known it since the first time they woke up on a Sunday pressed a little too close together and facing the consequences of it. But, in the endless glossary of things they discuss to death, <em>that</em> doesn't merit an entry. Talking about it would make it real, make it relevant, and there's no need for it to be. They're friends, best friends. But just friends, firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That this all coincides with Eli realizing he might just like Demetri as more than a friend is something he can’t help but fixate on. Does Demetri know? Is he disgusted but too nice to say anything so he’ll just let Kyler and company handle it? Eli keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Demetri to uninvite him from their standing Saturday sleepover, to fail to show up at their designated lunch table by the trash cans, firmly entrenched in the cafeteria’s loser section, for him to send a text with some sort of a termination clause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that never happens. If anything, they get closer than ever. Which means that the bullying gets worse, that they miss out on any chance of allying themselves to the other weird kids who recognize what a liability it is to have such a level of attachment to your equally nerdy, unavoidably male best friend. Whatever, screw them too Eli thinks and Demetri says. More than once and loud enough to be overheard. Overheard by none other than Kyler passing by, of course, because that’s the world they live in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you screwing, freak? You two butt buddies, for real?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what if we were? Huh? Are you jealous?” Demetri spits back, loud even over the rushing of blood that fills Eli’s ears as sweat prickles his palms. “You seem awfully concerned with my sexual orientation, any chance we’ve got something in common?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kyler looks dumbfounded, Demetri satisfied but with an unmistakable shake to his shoulders, as upperclassmen girls at the adjoining table tune in. One of them, her eyes narrowed turns to Kyler who looks stricken by the scrutiny, no smirk in sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you being homophobic, frosh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kyler hesitates, pointing a finger at his chest as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>me, homophobic?</span>
  </em>
  <span> but the girl’s gaze just narrows even more and Eli can’t help but feel victorious even though he hasn’t done a thing. Kyler finally stutters out a string of words, a denial but one twinged with apology—to the girls, not to Demetri, of course—before backing away. The other girls chatter among themselves, </span>
  <em>
    <span>who does he think he is?</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t that the kid who sent dick pics to the entire volleyball team?</span>
  </em>
  <span> and all kinds of non-sequiturs but the one who spoke up hones in on Eli. He does his best not to shrink in his seat as her eyes take him in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should stand up for your friends. And for yourself, for that matter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>I should</em>, Eli thinks. <em>I really should. </em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, he never does. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They don’t stand up for each other, they don’t stand up for themselves. They press on, ramrod stiff in the crowded hallways, limp like scarecrows at lunch. Just crossing out days on the calendar until the end of the week, the semester, the year. Sometimes, it’s like they’ve left the world behind; other times, it’s like they’re being crushed by it. Demetri is the one to vocalize this, always prone to dramatics, face down on Eli’s comforter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re at his place for once, his parents out of town and expecting him to be at Demetri’s as usual. Simultaneously, Demetri’s mother thinks this is the Moskowitz’ biannual attempt at making an effort towards their son’s socialization and is curled up across town with a glass of wine. So it’s just the two of them, playing Mortal Kombat X, the latest and goriest in the saga, their one chance since bloody video games have no place in Demetri’s house.</span>
  <em>
    <span> They desensitize you to violence</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Demetri’s mother insists. Neither of them bother to point out that getting pounded into lockers has desensitized them already, thank you very much. Eli’s parents don’t pay much attention to what media he consumes, keeping with the general theme of their parenting style, so he has not only Mortal Kombat but half a dozen equally brutal games for Demetri to salivate over. It’s nice to feel like he brings something to the friendship, for once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d been at it for a few hours, alternating between winning and losing, when Demetri had thrown his controller down and started talking. Not just rambling or quipping, but really talking. About how he couldn’t wait to go away for college but how he worried about his mom being all alone. About the stupid birthday cards his dad sends him, how the last one had his named spelled as ‘Demitri,’ something he’d tried to chalk up to an error on behalf of his secretary before realizing that didn’t make it any better. About how lonely he felt, like he was an astronaut on his own, orbiting earth without another soul in sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli felt compelled to join in on that part, before he could second guess himself. “You aren’t an astronaut, if anything you’re an alien.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That had earned a </span>
  <em>
    <span>harrumph</span>
  </em>
  <span> and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>gee, thanks </span>
  </em>
  <span>from Demetri, stifled by the mattress but with his usual wryness ringing out. Eli rushed to follow it up while he had the benefit of freedom from his friend’s sight. “But I am too, so it’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They call it a day on Mortal Kombat after that, with Demetri up by one win which gives him something of a morale boost. They order pizza and channel surf, too close together on Eli’s bed but what’s the matter with that? At one point, Demetri sort of shifts his elbow onto Eli’s shoulder, a natural fit with their angle and height difference. It makes sense, he should do what’s comfortable for him and if that happens to be extending his arm completely, then so be it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he never does and they fall asleep as far away from each other as possible. Which reveals itself as a gesture made totally in vain because the next morning, when they both wake up with the same pesky situation tenting their pajama pants and both decide to take care of themselves without leaving the bed, Eli can feel Demetri’s breath hot against his neck, different points of skin occasionally colliding as they both work at different rhythms. He feels so close to Demetri it’s almost like he becomes him. After, when Eli finally yanks himself out of his half-mortified, half-aroused headspace to grab a handful of tissues from the nightstand and hand some to Demetri, he’ll receive a whispered </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Reflexively, he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you </span>
  </em>
  <span>back and they both blush furiously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Demetri makes it to the end of his block on his bike, Eli runs back into the apartment, ignoring the maple syrup pooled on the kitchen table and all of the other messes he has to clean up before his parents return, instead making a straight beeline for the shower. It’s one thing to wake up and jerk off next to your best friend, he thinks, that can be justified. But something about thinking about what had happened that morning and jerking off again strikes him as unscrupulous. So into the shower it is, where the beat of water droplets can drown out the thoughts he doesn’t want to have surrounding those he can’t help but have and whatever comes of it can be washed down the drain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterwards, when he wipes the condensation off of the bathroom mirror to look at himself—to look at all of him, towel off, instead of just fixating on the scar as is his tendency—he wonders what it is Demetri saw in him all those years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How it fits with what he sees in him now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t happen again for a while. Things are normal, no tension lurking at the corners of their conversations, no freudian slips that could expose whatever happened between them to the few acquaintances they socialize with. They go to class, talk trash, play games, eat, sleep, repeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until finally, on a Tuesday in his bedroom, after losing yet another round of Smash, Demetri sets down his controller and reaches for Eli’s belt loop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eli says yes, clearly and surely, fresh off their high school’s bumbling but thorough symposium on consent. Demetri’s face is screwed up with the sort of determination he usually reserves for getting out of gym class, only now it’s applied to getting Eli off. He ends up being much more successful in this pursuit, though it’s not like Eli’s hard to please. He can’t bring himself to even be embarrassed about how quickly he finishes or about the flecks of jizz that end up on Demetri’s khakis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s certainly grateful, which he tries to convey verbally, but—being who he is—fails at, instead reaching over to return the favor. Demetri’s dick is different like this, in front of him and hard, different from the flashes he’s seen over the years, different from what he imagined after that one sleepover. Eli knew Demetri was uncut, had heard the other boys make jokes in the locker room and Demetri’s own mother rant about the reduced pleasure of circumcision, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t take this as anti-semitic, Eli dear,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but it’s surreal to see it like this, red up against his pasty palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to look at it or are you going to—” Demetri whines, cut off by Eli finally gathering enough of his wits to clench and start moving. It’s weird, to do this thing he’s done hundreds, thousands of times, to someone else, the angle weird and the rest of his body rigid, Demetri so quiet he almost asks if he’s doing it wrong—how do you do it wrong?—until finally the other boy is cursing and breathless, pushing his hand away as he cums. It’s then that Eli starts to feel exposed, to feel like he’s sitting dick out on the couch of his oldest and only friend, hoping the line at Shop’n’Go is long enough they won’t risk Demetri’s mother walking in before they’ve managed to tidy themselves up. Maybe sensing his panic, Demetri plucks a t-shirt from the floor and hands it over, expectantly. After Eli’s cleaned himself up, Demetri takes the shirt back and uses it on himself. It’s the kind of thing that makes Eli want to throw caution to the wind and go for a second round, never mind who could walk in. His face must give something away because Demetri demands to know what he’s smirking about. Eli tells him and there it is again, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>harrumph</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it would suck if my mom walked in on us but it’s not like she’d be surprised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, she knows I’m gay, always has, we have a healthy relationship, and she already thinks that you are so—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not gay,” Eli cuts in, futilely, regretting it even before he catches a glimpse of Demetri’s eyes rolling back into his head. “I still like girls.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, sure, no one said you didn’t. That wasn’t the right frame anyway: she doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re gay, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>suspects</span>
  </em>
  <span> it or maybe she </span>
  <em>
    <span>intuits</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Overall, she probably thinks that your sexuality isn’t any of her business,” he pauses. “Though I don’t think she’d be thrilled about us getting cum all over the shirt she bought me at Disney.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eli is silent, not sure where things can go from here. Or where they should go. Or what any of this means for them, for their friendship. Again, his face betrays him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, if you’re having some freak out, you don’t have to. What happened is between us. Who else is going to care, right? I’m okay with it,” Demetri says, puffing up his chest though a trace of insecurity colors his tone. “Are you okay with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise?” Still, there’s something pleading to his voice, something he isn’t used to from Demetri that almost makes him dig into this thing a little more before signing off on it. But Eli’s not used to being the one who pushes, who digs, so he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why start now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They make it through all of freshman and part of sophomore year before the return of karate to the Valley puts a crimp in their relationship. Or rather, their situationship, as Demetri terms it, elaborating that this means we’ll stick it out until someone else is willing to let us stick it in.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They make it through all of freshman and part of sophomore year before the return of karate to the Valley puts a crimp in their relationship. Or rather, their </span>
  <em>
    <span>situationship,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Demetri terms it, elaborating that this means </span>
  <em>
    <span>we’ll stick it out until someone else is willing to let us stick it in</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It was comfortable by that point, just another facet of their friendship, like trading cards and late nights scrolling fan theory forums. No one cares about them enough to suspect anything. But sometimes it weighs on Eli, all of these moments that don’t exist outside of minutes they occupy. Sometimes he feels like he’s someone else with Demetri in private than he is when they’re at school, then a third person when he’s alone. And none of those people can quite be classified as </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hits him that first day at lunch when Miguel joins their table, Demetri hamming it up for his benefit, parodying the reality of their social standing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We hang out after school, make out, give each other handjobs. Eli here is the homecoming king. Gets laid more than anyone. Isn’t that right, Eli?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He smirks along then and there but a few hours later the absurdity of it hits him. Of this approximation of experiences he’ll never have, a person he’ll never be. Of the fact that Demetri knows what a nerd he is, knows all the things this branding will keep from him, and thinks it’s laughable. Thinks he’s stuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, just like that, Cobra Kai gives him the out he didn’t even know he was looking for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not Miguel’s fault, per se. It’s more like he’s the match that strikes the powderkeg. The first normal, functional person to get within spitting distance of the insular clusterfuck that is The Demetri and Eli Show and truly note the degree of codependence on display. Which, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, they know, what are they supposed to do about it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Miguel says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Join Cobra Kai. Stand up for yourselves.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is how they end up in a shitty strip mall, risking ringworm on mats older than they are with a bunch of other oddballs, being berated by some washed-up wackjob. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he becomes Hawk, Demetri is the furthest thing from his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard to explain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t like he becomes Hawk overnight, no, that much is obvious even without Demetri’s little jabs, but at the same time it’s like he’s always been Hawk. Like the Eli of before was a costume, part of a role he was playing, an extra waiting for a curtain that was never going to rise on him, a spotlight that would never flatter. So he cuts the sandbag and sets fire to the theater and suddenly he’s real, he’s living. This is life. But somehow, the audience is still there and their opinion of him matters more than ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the one person that had always been his most loyal fan refuses to clap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t make sense. It makes him feel wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he starts dating Moon. And Demetri all but stops talking to him and he has no idea how to change any of that. So he just gives up. On changing things. Or righting them. Whatever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, the more time he spends with Moon, the more things start to make sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, more like she forces him to sift through the mess of things he’s pushed into the back of his mind. Unlike Demetri, she won’t let him get away with sitting there as a silent sounding board. She talks, then pauses, expectantly, waiting for him to offer up his thoughts. And he can’t, no, not at first, but over time all the things he never said before start to come out. About his parents, school, Demetri—just their friendship, none of the more risque aspects—about himself. His regrets, his dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s...</span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, they never get very far physically. He doesn’t mind. There’s something funny about him ruining the only friendship he’s ever had with a relationship only to turn around and ruin that relationship with friendship. They still make out, of course, it’s not like there’s a lot else to do in the Valley, and Hawk ends up spending enough time with Moon that his parents notice his absence and insist on having her over for dinner. It’s horrible, his father asking if it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>the mohawk that drew you to this clown? </span>
  </em>
  <span>and his mother </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoping you two kids are being safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It almost makes him glad they’d given Demetri the cold shoulder all those years; he wouldn’t have taken things as placidly as Moon did, wouldn’t have smiled and picked through overcooked noodles—</span>
  <em>
    <span>what do you mean, she’s a vegetarian?</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and after it all still be willing to curl into Hawk’s side the second they were through the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So that explains a lot, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Moon had said once they were back at her house. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Doesn’t it? </span>
  </em>
  <span>And they had gone to sleep soon after in her four poster bed without saying another word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning, Moon asks if he had a bad dream—</span>
  <em>
    <span>all of that tossing and turning, it was like the time I tried acro-yoga</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and he tells her he can’t remember. It’s clear she isn’t buying it but he’s saved by the ring of her phone, the caller ID flashing YTHELASTWMN. Which raises more than a few questions. She lets it go to voicemail but the work has already been done, the subject changed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yasmine is calling you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think we’re going to get coffee later. We’ve done it a few times,” she pauses, passing the phone nervously between her palms. “I don’t know. I don’t want to freeze her out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, but isn’t she…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moon laughs, saving him from the potential catastrophe of finishing that sentence. “I know, she hasn’t got a great reputation. Or attitude. But, she’s been my best friend since I was dumb enough to wear my hair in cornrows. I mean, she’s the reason I undid them and thank gods for that. She told me I looked like I belonged in a state school frat house, playing pong for beads. We were ten, where did she even get that from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk laughs in spite of himself at that, causing Moon to laugh as well and soon enough she’s looking a little wet around the eyes. He reaches out a hand to her but she shrugs him away, wiping at droplets. “But if she said something like that to me now, it wouldn’t be the same. So she tries her best not to and I try my best to be ready to move on from it if she does. You get what I’m saying, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s his turn to shrug, even though he totally does. “I guess. But, I mean, Demetri and I aren’t going to be friends like we were again. Even if I call him right now, that’s all over. Done. Finished.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be friends like you were. Just try being friends, period. You have to meet people where they are, Hawk. Accept the change.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk repeats that phrase to himself as he rides his bike home, summoning up the courage to turn a street too soon and cross over a few blocks, winding up at Demetri’s. He breathes a sigh of relief when it’s Demetri who answers, the anxiety setting in instantly because it’s Demetri who answers, bandages off but his face still showing the signs of whatever went down with Kreese. “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just riding my bike and thought maybe—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Riding your bike home from Moon’s and thought you’d come check out your psycho sensei’s handiwork? Well, as you can see, he’s left me with a great color scheme. We’ve got slate grey, stone grey, maybe even some blue grey, all nicely juxtaposing with my scab that will become a scar or, best case scenario, allow MRSA into my system, thereby—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Demetri. Stop.” His tone isn’t harsh, just solid, but Demetri looks like he’s been hit again all the same. “I just wanted to see you. I hate how things have been.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seconds feel like centuries, standing there. His hair is already part way collapsed from sleep and the change from the coolness of Moon’s overly air-conditioned house to the heat of the day snaking around him makes his scar feel rigid, uncomfortable. He presses his hand over it on reflex before putting it back down. Demetri’s eyes boggle at this with an unreadable expression and it’s probably this that persuades him to let Hawk in. It’s not awkward at all; in fact, it feels like one of their best hangouts ever if only because of the distance that preceded it and when Hawk finally leaves in the early evening, stomach full of Demetri’s mother’s lasagna, Demetri hugs him at the door. Tentative at first, before they both fully commit. He doesn’t think anything of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>bye, Eli</span>
  </em>
  <span> that accompanies his departure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even by the next afternoon, when Demetri has taken to the internet to trash Cobra Kai, it doesn’t occur to him that he’s yet again been totally misunderstood by the person who’s supposed to know him best. No, that thought doesn’t come until a few days later, when he’s been hitting the punching bag so long and so hard his knuckles display half of the color wheel. Once the initial despair wears off and his fingers fade into a dull throb, he makes his mind up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he didn’t strike first...but he sure can strike hard. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Which brings them to...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mall fight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which...looks bad. He knows that, objectively. Even before he hears himself call Demetri a <em>pussy</em>, before Demetri is calling him an <em>asshole</em> in return. Before Robby delivers that final thwack with his foot. Before Moon hears about it all and breaks up with him—</span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s not the only reason but we’ll talk about the rest once you’ve calmed down</span>
  </em>
  <span>—he knows. But. The thing is, knowing that doesn’t mean he can do anything to make it better. Knowing that doesn’t mean he can admit all the things that brought him to that point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Long hours at the dojo, however, to where he can’t think over the pounding of his own blood in his ears, can make him push it all aside. So that’s what he does. And when he starts to get sick of it, he takes his fake ID, grabs a six pack, and chugs until he’s ready to go again, until he’s sick, until he’s passed out on the mat, being roused the next morning by a swift kick from Tory coupled with Miguel’s voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey man, are you—not so hard! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, he’d rather she kick him ten times harder than have to watch the two of them being all lovey dovey for the remainder of the day. To Miguel’s credit, he tries to get Hawk talking—</span>
  <em>
    <span>do you wanna talk about it? my mom always says the bravest thing you can do is to ask forgiveness so maybe you should</span>
  </em>
  <span>—but he gives up once the rest of the Cobras trickle in to lead warm up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s probably the rattling in his head and the alcohol coming out of his own pores that keeps him from realizing Kreese has hung back at the end of practice. He’s talking too fast, manic almost, and his eyes are so dark they would be unnerving if Hawk himself wasn’t already so far gone on range, so burnt out. Kreese talks and he listens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still not the dumbest move he makes but it’s up there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From there on out, everything is a blur. Strobe light glimpses of trespassing and chaos, the stolen medal. It burns a hole in his hand the first week he has it in his possession but thinking back to the Miyagi-Dos at the mall is all he needs to ice it out. Then there’s Coyote Creek, fighting Miguel, fist bumping the next day though in the back of his mind he thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>you weren’t you yesterday and I wasn’t me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. More and more he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the double edged insecurity of realizing he won’t ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>be Eli </span>
  </em>
  <span>again but he still doesn’t know what it means to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be Hawk</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there’s the stupid party and things go from blur to blitz. Not Moon and Piper, not really though it does kind of warp the arc he’s going for, but Demetri. Standing with a mic in hand that couldn’t do more damage if it were actually a knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, what Demetri says during the school fight hurts him even more. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No hard feelings,</span>
  </em>
  <span> right in his ear, like it’s a secret. Then, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry, Eli,</span>
  </em>
  <span> for everyone to hear, the trumpet of his victory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, he knows he’s skipping things, that his memory can be somewhat selective. But these are the bits and pieces that come up over and over so they must be the ones that matter most. The anger, that’s what matters.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So many times over the years, Demetri had accused him of seeing things as black and white, as being too rigid in his thinking; lying there, dusted with the shards of the trophy case, it occurs to Hawk that, for a while now, he’s only been seeing red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Miguel, crumpled on the ground when he was on the balcony only seconds before, for him to realize this is definitely a bad thing. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i would say this marks the end of canon compliance but also the beginning of something better than whatever s3 will be giving us? if you can't tell, i come from a place of hawkness, of anger and invention masking itself as individuality. i think for ck to make hawk the villain of s3, which seems to be on the docket, regardless of kreese or any eventual redemption, is lazy and dull. really, sometimes the bravest thing you can do is look for forgiveness from people that want to gouge your eyes out. thanks for reading.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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